A Kick To The Pink

The Swan Song of Journalism (or WWMLKJ Do?)

2012-01-16T18:19:00.009-05:00

Dearest Anderson "Silver Fox" Cooper,

Remember that time you, Al Gore and I were hanging out? Probably not since I was a mere audience member at Radio City Music Hall for a Times Talk hosted by you. It was during the primaries of 2008 and you asked Al who was he cheering for: Barack or Hillary? He answered with the integrity of a man worthy of holding the best seat in The White House. He told you he couldn't back someone who deals in slander. Without naming names (Hillary), Al said he didn't believe in ruining the reputation of anyone to get ahead. And you agreed with him, Anderson. You agreed.

And then you and I were together again at the start of 2009. It was the eve before the inauguration and there you were with us in Washington, D.C., interviewing folks inside a booth as fans hammed it up for the panning camera, all of us celebrating this incredible historical moment! We were so good together then, Anderson! You were a journalist and I was your fan for reporting with - what's that word again? INTEGRITY.

I don't know who you are anymore. But after what I witnessed Friday afternoon I do know one thing: You will never interview the likes of Al Gore again. And you'll probably never be invited to another Times Talk to discuss a topic as sincere as Politics. You'll be much too busy promenading a day time talk show set with mic in hand as you toss mediocrity like chicken feed to an audience of clucking imbeciles who didn't make the cut for tickets to Live! With Kelly Ripa. It sounds like the fate a TV personality might face after a sordid sex scandal. But you, Anderson Cooper, chose this path. You plucked yourself from a position of respect and dignity and jumped into the sheep suit of Geraldo Rivero faster than you could say, "We're here, we're queer, we want to do your hair!"

That's actually something you'll never say, Anderson, because unlike Rachel Maddow who has the courage to stand up with the homosexual community and blaze a trail for basic human rights (currently known as "gay rights") you're happy to live with your boyfriend in Chelsea (the gay mecca) and reap the benefits as such rights become available. More so, you'll step outside the lines of your own "alternative lifestyle" and play Judge for a few hours a week as you belittle the lives of others.

To get specific, in a million years I would have never expected to see you degrading a fragile and obviously damaged woman who's biggest faux pas was quoting the likes of Jesus, Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. Sure, this woman has been paying the legal fees for an obviously deranged killer and who knows why?! Your audience certainly didn't because you barely allowed her to finish a single sentence! (I found the rantings of this person far more interesting than any of your snarky interruptions.) Far from in love with Joran van der Sloot as the title of your show claimed, you made her the subject of a public stoning and riled up an audience of nutjobs to hurl whatever they pleased at someone who's suffered so much damage that paying $70,000 in legal fees for someone she's never met seems like a great idea. Later you featured several well-spoken individuals who met and married through prison pen pal sites and turned your seething audience on them to pick apart lifestyles that are considered alternative, yet work perfectly well for them and harm no one. You! A gay liberal! Moved by your hypocrisy, I was compelled to post the following comment (click on image for larger view.)

Yes, I misspelled "whose" but I doubt you'd even notice with your white head shoved so far up your butt (which is yours to do with as you please - no one's judging your lifestyle here).

You suggested that she let a dolphin move in with her instead of an ex convict and within seconds accused her of not taking this seriously (and you interrupted her again). You - accomplished journalist. Her - suffering from mental problems. Who do you suppose viewers with a decent IQ (or half a heart) are going to root for?

I've been writing to Steven Russell since last summer. Prompted by (the homosexual love story) I Love You, Philip Morris, I couldn't believe such a man was still incarcerated. So I Googled him and wrote a letter. This wasn't as difficult for me because I not only worked for WriteAPrisoner.com and became familiar with the desperate pleas of inmates to connect with someone on the outside, but my incredibly loving, compassionate, and big-hearted brother, Adam, owns and operates the site. You, Anderson, might recognize him as the guy you booked for your panel then bumped to the audience so that you could hand over the platform to a "criminologist" whose vocabulary consisted of made-up words (And speaking of made-up, there are plenty of "experts" who would say a woman so cosmetically oversaturated suffers from her own disillusionment.) You managed to ask my brother a question at the end of the show, which your editors snipped up nicely so that it would still fit your original theme: People Who Write To Prisoners Are Idiotic, Self-Destructive Whackjobs.

This photo was taken moments after Adam unleashed backstage, expounding on the correct statistics of inmates and their pen pals, how it reduces recidivism, and basically a whole bunch of wonderful information that would've been a lot more accurate and helpful to anyone interested in the true effects this act has on our society.

My brother's a bit classier than I, which you can tell by the following comment he posted at the show's page (click on image for larger view.)

To hear more about his feelings on the matter, listen to The Prison Show's podcast on Pen Pals.

Listen to internet radio with The Prison Show on Blog Talk Radio

Or don't do anything. Just sit around complaining about the type of people who end up in jail "living on tax dollars" as though it were a vacation and not the devastating result of having no one to love you, to guide you through rough times, or to help pull you up from the lowest point in your life. I'm proud to write weekly to an inmate. I send him books, money, magazine subscriptions, and hope whenever I can and, I promise you it's not because I suffer from a made-up word some camera-hungry "criminologist" likes to spew through over-glossed lips. I do it because I care about this person. He's a special case (don't get me started on how much I adore him!) but he ended up breaking the law out of heartache and pain - something we've all known. At a time when the LGBT suicide rate is so bad that people have taken to YouTube to create the It Gets Better Project, do you really want to be one of the bullies? It's not too late - you don't have to become another one of those hateful talking heads, hungry for ratings. I don't believe it's ever too late for anyone, but the masses have a different stance on that (just ask last week's audience). And though you've probably been bombarded by his quotes on Facebook today, remember what Martin Luther King, Jr. said:

Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.

And speaking of bullies, how about that dolphin rape!

Enter To Win a Copy of Blood Drunk!

2012-01-16T15:26:00.002-05:00

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Blood Drunk

by Angela Lovell

Giveaway ends January 25, 2012.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

Shot Through The Heart!

2011-12-31T03:14:00.000-05:00

Got home at a ridiculously late hour and I'm now making mad cuddles to two of the most exquisite dogs this world has ever seen. I'm high on several things: Logan painted the dining room and it looks STUNNING! Margot and I concocted the greatest mac 'n cheese with white truffle oil and bacon, despite our lack of Jenn. Pauline came over and we watched the Swedish version of Girl With The Dragon Tattoo (also known as Men Who Hate Women.) And Margot gave me my birthday present which happens to be a freaking ZOMBIE COOKIE JAR accompanied by MANY milk chocolate chip cookies (Logan refuses to eat semisweet chips, rightfully so!) Took a cab home with Pauline so I'm feeling extra high class and FANCY this evening.

I'm afraid to report that I've become boring. All I want to do now that I married a spectacular specimen of manhood (and humankind in general) is watch TV, take my dogs to the park, write about monsters, read The New Yorker (we've rekindled), and take excessively long baths and/or showers. SUPER BORING!!! But I can't help it. This is the happiest I've ever been and sometimes I need to slow down and take it in.

We went to Florida for Xmas. ALL of us, dogs included, which cost a whopping $400. EGADS!!! That's crazy. I've officially crossed the line and am now a crazed pet owner. I thought this happened when I knitted each of the girls their own sweaters, but really it comes down to money (as always.) In Florida we were subjected to much merriment and FOOD - LOTS of food! We also saw plenty of movies, including Girl With The Dragon Tattoo. Bitch Magazine had warned me against the book, claiming it was all incest and rape, rape, rape. They weren't kidding. But I can't help it - when I see Daniel Craig in a preview it really rattles my cage. Not to mention my fondness for mystery. So I guess I knew how this business would pan out.

GWDT is a loner, much like Pee Wee Herman. Just like Mr. Herman she too, lacks tolerance for fat bullies. The scene to which I'm referring is so heavy-handed that you'll ponder it for days - in the bad way! I had mixed emotions about all of this because I LOVE a good reason for girls to kick ass. I had to put it in the same category as Kill Bill. These ladies are NOT delicate - they're tough. Not to suggest it's "okay" they were raped because they can handle it, but it certainly was easier for them to process thanks to years of cruelty, abuse, and proper training for such events. I have to report: I loved the vengeance. And I'm inspired by it.

100% of the people I roll with who tried reading this book gave it two thumbs down and quit a few pages in. That's a bummer, one I'd like to blame on crappy translation from its original Swedish version (On a side note: Daniel Craig is MUCH hotter than the Swedish guy in the 2009 film. It's like comparing birthday cake and sawdust.)

HOT DAMN! I cannot stop looking at our dining room!!! Well done, Logan!

So the story gets graphic. And then GWDT is limping home. UGH. But it had to happen so that millions of women could share the most incredible revenge fantasy of ALL TIME. It left me asking, Lorenna Bobbit, WHO?!

I thought about the movie for days. I watched the crappier foreign version. I might even read the book. And here is my point: Good storytelling takes us to new ground. I'm not a fan of sensationalism but GWDT really got to me. So much so that I understood why everyone was reading it on the subway for the last two years. Will I read it? No way. That's what movies are for. But I am a fan. And that's not an easy thing for me to become these days.

Thanks, Hollywood! Please continue to deliver more anti-conforming ladies who punch and kick. As a newly dull married lady, I'm lovin' them BIG TIME!

Crazy Book Slut's Blood Drunk: Faded Blue {Review}

2011-11-03T20:59:00.003-04:00

Crazy Book Slut: Blood Drunk: Faded Blue by Angela Lovell {Review}If you think the review is good, you should see the email Tena sent me - Made my YEAR!!! If you trust a Crazy Book Slut (and you should) check out these kind words.

Literary Death Match - November 10th!!!

2011-10-24T21:39:00.002-04:00

Making November a month to remember, Literary Death Match is teaming with legendary illustrator Rick Meyerowitz to celebrate our 40th-ever NYC event with an unprecendented four-judge lineup beneath Drom's seductive lights.

The all-star reading lineup brings together New Yorker music critic Sasha Frere-Jones, LA-based Jillian Lauren (author of New York Times best-selling Some Girls and the all-new Pretty), the masterful Teddy Wayne (author of the novel Kapitoil — a 2011 PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize runner-up), and Moth StorySlam champ Angela Lovell (author of Mouseschawitz – My Summer Job of Concentrated Fun).

They'll aim to impress the first-ever four-judge panel, rich with brainiacs including Meyerowitz (co-illustrator of the brilliant New Yorkistan New Yorker cover), "the sharpest tack in Brooklyn," Sean Kelly (former National Lampoon editor, and Heavy Metal magazine founder), the loquacious Danny Abelson (author of The Muppets Take Manhattan), and comedian Jena Friedman (writer for Late Show with David Letterman)!

Hosted by LDM creator Todd Zuniga.

Where: Drom, 85 Avenue A, NYC (map)
When: Doors at 6:30, Show at 7:45 (sharp); afterdrinks after.
Cost: $7 preorder; $10 on the door.

Let Me Read To You!

2011-09-22T22:02:00.002-04:00

YAY, a reading!!! It's quite possible that I'll be performing my most offensive piece of fiction to date. Come on down to see some art and laugh inappropriately!

People In Glass Houses Shouldn't Throw 9/11 Stones

2011-09-12T22:41:00.001-04:00

Here is a basic rule I believe in and protect: If you were raped, you get to make rape jokes. If you’re scared of being raped, likewise. In fact, there’s just about no joke I find too offensive because I deal in satire. But many people don’t know what that is and many of my jokes fall on deaf and dumb ears (just ask Sarah Silverman or most of the writers for Comedy Central - or read the reviews for my Disney essays.) I’m a comedy writer, and like most funny people, a lot of terrible stuff made me this way. I deserve to laugh about it. But more importantly, I NEED to laugh about.

I bring this up after two Facebook friends (a married couple) started policing me. A recent joke I’d made had the hubby acting indignant on behalf of an entire race. My joke was:

“Why do all the big black guys in my neighborhood have such scary dogs? When did being big and black stop being enough?”

Is it racist? Obviously. But it’s also funny. And the reason racist jokes are so funny to anyone with half a brain is because they are ABSURD. An intelligent person wouldn’t summarize an entire race with any description, even physical (there are albinos and midgets EVERYWHERE.) Besides, if you’re my friend within the secret circle of Facebook, then you KNOW my sense of humor. It is often offensive – I try to tone it down but it doesn’t help that I married an instigator. Love me or leave me. But don't call me a racist in a passive-aggressive manner.

So the hubby wrote “DISLIKE” and when I asked why he elaborated that any big black Facebook friends would think I was afraid of them. I protested that it’s in the eye of the beholder and that I personally envy the power wielded by a large black man.

Recently I wrote another update that managed to piss off his wife:

“My morning commute was so bad that I wished to get terrorist-attacked just to put me out of my misery.”

Do you REALLY think there’s a commute that bad? No. But it was Friday when the whole city was on reddish-orange alert, or whatever alarming color you wanna call it. The wife wrote the following and the irony is precious:

“When did you become so retarded?”

AAAAAAAAH HAH HAH HAH HAH HAH!!! As offensive as I am, even I know not to post that word anywhere!!! Talk about veering from political correctness, “retard” is the worst one of ALL! There are even COMMERCIALS about it in between episodes of Glee! (Not that I can watch Glee.) It’s the new N word, for crying out loud! I can’t deny that I wasn’t delighted at the hypocrisy, but still. It pissed me off to be policed yet again. So I deleted these two from my Facebook. I didn’t want to delete them – I wanted to simply hide my wall from their judging eyes. And I’d already hidden their updates from my own eyes because they are the type who like to “check in” everywhere they go. I get it – your small town friends are impressed by your big city life. But it bores the rest of us. If you can’t deliver on entertainment AND you have the audacity to judge your peers passive-aggressively in a public forum, you gotta go.

People in glass houses shouldn’t throw their own politically incorrect stones. And it’ll be awkward when our paths cross again, but so what? It’s awkward when someone farts on my morning commute, but I survive that. Logan says this great thing to me every time I fret about any social dealings:

If it’s not going to bring you happiness or money, why bother?

So it’s the 10^th anniversary of 9/11 and my thirteenth year in this town. Lately I’m back on my kick of wanting to move – go anywhere else and just FORCE myself to stay put. But my love affair with this city is like an abusive relationship: No one knows what it’s like when we’re alone together.

I currently have a very lovely gig that has fattened my checking account quite nicely. And I’m selling books – BOOKS! (Technically, they’re just essays right now, but WOW! It’s A LOT of money I didn't expect to see!) We don’t know how long we can count on my income but we’re thinking about moving to a nice area – a REALLY nice area – and throwing a lot of money away on rent AND a broker’s fee. Because what if this is our last year here? What if Logan gets a great offer in L.A. to produce or host a game show? (The latter isn't so unlikely.) We want to enjoy what time we have left in this lovable yet devilish town. And even though many of the people I love are here, I do NOT plan to have babies in this craphole. UH-UH. Don’t get me wrong, it could happen, but I’m fighting with all my might to save these eggs til I’m in a REAL home and not one that’s constantly targeted by Al Quida and homeless people who spit.

Everyone likes to compare notes on their personal 9/11 experience and which friends/family they had nearby. I have NEVER heard anyone who’s lost someone rhapsodize about it because those people don’t need to compare notes. They don’t want to and they certainly don't want to waste money on all of that for-profit commemorative crap. And even though I’m in the lucky batch, I don’t really like to talk about that day. But good luck going to work and NOT hearing it. Good luck turning New York 1 on in the morning and NOT seeing something totally disturbing – something to suck you right back into that time. The best story I heard all week was Bernadette telling me about her parents driving her back from Long Island on Friday night. There were confusing lights on a bridge that they mistook for police cars. Then Bernadette realized, “They’re decorating for 9/11!”

She was totally sincere but she and her parents started laughing. Decorations for 9/11. YEP. That’s where we are with this thing. Her dad laughed and then added, “Maybe I’d feel different if I hadn’t gotten out.”

This was the part of the story that confused me. I didn’t know Bernadette's dad was in the second tower because she isn’t the kind of person to tell her 9/11 story. Her dad was on the 60^th floor. When the first tower fell, he ran down the stairs and got out. And even he can laugh about the absurdity of an entire weekend devoted to this thing. When we “celebrate” and “remember” on TV we’re letting the terrorists win. It’s like calling your ex and listing all the things you miss about him. When we shut down our trains and tell our citizens, "If you see something, say something," (DUH!) we're perpetuating the terror. The fear lives on.

And those images do disturb me. I’ve never become desensitized to this stuff. But I want to be. And that’s probably why I make jokes. Because I was scared during Friday morning’s commute. I was scared taking the train today, especially when the whole system went to hell in a hand basket and I ended up on four different trains before I gave up and walked the rest of the way home. I have just as many nightmares about fires and jumping as the rest of the world. I just have a better attitude about it.

In 2001 I was going through a super fun slutty phase that coincided with a lovely bout of anorexia, so I was lookin’ and feelin’ GOOD. Around 3am I was begged to sleep over by a rather successful lawyer who happened to also be quite attractive (and short – I’ve dated so many hobbits that my friends nicknamed my vagina “The Shire” and insisted, “They just want to go home!”) I didn’t want to sleep over because I didn’t care about him – at all. He was just for fun. At the time, I was slightly dead inside, unable to love anybody and just trying to figure stuff out. What a GREAT time for the most traumatic thing my generation’s ever seen to strike!

I left his bed, peed in his courtyard (because I could), took off my heels and walked all the way from Broadway and 7^th Street to 8^th Ave and 18^th Street in my bare feet. (Apparently, this was also my “gross” phase.) I was feeling really good. I’d dumped Allan, my lovable, talented and rather “well off” fiancé but I could still go home to him. And that was convenient because unlike the lawyer who’d tried buying me stuff to get me to stay, I actually cared about Allan. I walked across town singing showtunes at the top of my lungs to the delight of applauding homeless people. I didn’t have any money to give them, but most of them get happy if you smile and look them in the eye. I remember thinking how this was the first time I felt safe here. I’d made this town my bitch and I was happy to call it home. As I crossed 7^th Avenue, I held my shoes up to the towers and sang at the top of my lungs to them.

Four hours later the first one came down.

What nobody ever talks about were the days we were trapped. You couldn’t get off the island unless you had a car and there were no cars left to rent. My grandfather offered to get me in Jersey if I could hitch a ride over. And I wanted to. There were constant bomb threats. We were always running away from a building. None of them came true but it proved to me that there are some twisted freaks in this town just waiting for the chance to get evil on the rest of us.

I did the only thing I could – I begged my mom to come get me and drive me back to Florida (I wouldn’t even get on a plane.) A few months later I went to some performance art conducted by the now deceased Spalding Gray (he jumped off the Staten Island Ferry after seeing the movie Big Fish, a true testament to how awful that film was.) One of the writers told her story about 9/11. I wasn’t expecting that. I felt safe in Florida, living in a treehouse along the river with my pug and writing projects, waiting tables at a seafood restaurant as I worked my way through the surfers of that cruddy little town. When this storyteller talked about the island shaking, I started to shake. I trembled. My date tried to touch me and I wanted to shout in his face, “DON’T! I don’t even like you!”

A few weeks later I spiraled into what I believe was an honest bout of alcoholism. I drove drunk. I had black outs. I ended up in the grocery store near my house several times wasted and eating pastries from their containers as the store’s cashiers peered from around the corner not knowing what to do with me. I wasted away in that little apartment feeling poisoned by my circumstances and pitying myself. Then my incredibly wise cousin, Katie asked a good question.

“Why don’t you go back to New York?”

Within ten days I’d sold all of my belongings and bought a plane ticket. I started over. My numbness didn’t go away for years though. I stopped being a vegan. I ate animals and their secretions after being a vegetarian (off and on) since I was twelve years old. I dated five guys at a time, using them mostly for food and money, replacing them like they were rolls of toilet paper. It wasn’t until my love affair with Konk that I came back to life, and even then it took time (and a powerful therapist provided to me through the 9/11 program.) After turning thirty I began to realize just how absurd all of life is. Nobody’s special. No one is more deserving. We’re all just skittish haphazard mammals trying to get a break. And we all deserve one.

I danced in my underwear that evening after our phones started working again. I had about twenty-seven messages but the one that got me was Katie’s. Through sobs she said, “You have to be okay! I know you’re okay! Please be okay!”

She’d visited me just a year earlier and even came down to the Trade Center where I worked. I was a temp – a floater. I worked for $16 an hour and hated every moment of it. Nobody knew if I was at work that day because the phones wouldn’t work. Nobody knew if that was me they’d seen jumping from the top of a building to escape fire because a quick death was preferable. And sometimes knowing that could’ve been me – could’ve been anyone I love – was just too unbearable.

But those times have passed. Now I can revisit this crap every year thanks to websites and stations replaying the highlights of that awful occasion. But I can relive them without shaking, drinking myself into oblivion, or even the warning tone people use to retell their personal 9/11 story. I can laugh about it. And I need to laugh about it. And if you don’t like it, I’ll 9/11 you from my Facebook page.

I'll now leave you with my favorite knock-knock joke:

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

9/11

9/11, who?

(GASP!) YOU SAID YOU’D NEVER FORGET!

(Cue Destiny Child's "Survivor")

"When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely." - Truman Capote

2011-07-26T23:30:00.004-04:00

I should be watching this documentary from Netflix that I've been hanging onto for weeks, Making Of The Misfits - ACK! And maybe I will before the night ends. But I never blog anymore and deemed today worthy enough.

I finished writing a book today. It's something I actually felt I'd accomplished weeks ago, it just needed another 1000 words or so to cap it off. It's neither dear to my heart nor is it unique. It's a Young Adult vampire drama that I HOPE rings true to my style. When I read it for editing purposes I thought, "WOW, this is really good!"

But when I think about it later I think, "TRITE, PATHETIC, ABSURD."

I think we're calling it BLOOD DRUNK. I wrote it as an experiment. I've wanted to write a REAL book for many years now and heard everyone persist, "Young Adult is where the money is!"

Not that I did it just for the money. I've had this idea for a long time. I tried to write a script based on it with one of my BFFs but we weren't as prolific together as we'd aspired to be. One of my late and lonely nights waiting on a train platform it hit me - I'm all alone. Anything could happen down here. And that's when I looked into the dark tunnel hoping for a train but instead imagined a vampire flying out and feeding on me. It was incredible. Finally I wrote about it. I wrote 68,000 words about it, to be exact. And now it's in the hands of my closest friends and even a stranger or two. But that's okay because this isn't a subject near and dear to my heart so criticism will land on eager ears. I just want this to be a fun book.

I've had some harsh feedback for my short lil' collection of essays (which has miraculously been paying the bills.) But that criticism doesn't really bother me. It's mostly from readers who don't enjoy satire. And I know I'm a fantastic writer. That's something no one's ever been able to take away, though plenty of times I wish they would've. I wish I could've been something else. I didn't want to be a writer - I just was one. I fell into success with it for this very reason. I wanted to be a dozen other things, but writing is the one thing I do compulsively and well. I've met a lot of people who want to be writers, but they have little to show for it. The first time I moved to Los Angeles I met a lot of people like this who'd written just one or two things.

To them I said, "I caught a fish once but I don't call myself a fisherman."

I technically wrote this book in a month if I'm honest about how much time I put into it. After a while I had to force myself to complete it. Someday soon I'll write a very different book. I'll write things close to my heart, things that define and scare me. I'll write that book and never be able to read what the critics say. But I know that book has to come out of me eventually. Most likely, it will sound a lot like this. (I wrote that story in less than 30 minutes and it still feels like the most honest and beautiful thing to ever come out of me.)

Logan's away conducting auditions for his gameshow. I miss him. I had to celebrate all by myself, shucking oysters with the little butter knife I stole from The Algonquin years ago. Mom just took us there for dinner. I still get a thrill over its round table, but I don't think I love Dorothy Parker anymore. I think my heart stopped beating for her a long time ago. I try to find new writers but it's so rare anyone is writing with a bare-bones beauty. It's so rare that a writer stands naked before you laying it all on the line. When I read most authors I can just feel them twisting words and forcing them into place. I just fell madly in love with the works of Lauren Groff though - TRUE LOVE! Bought her novel immediately after gobbling up every short story I could find. The novel is blurbed by Lorrie Moore and Stephen King, naturally - two of my most favorite living writers. I get so tired of defending Stephen King to lit snobs. It always ends with me telling them, "You're just jealous."

Every writer wants to be that prolific, not to mention, imaginative.

I'm excited for my book. It's a good read, I know this is true. It's smart enough and very adventurous. I did a few new things while being true to vampires. I've never actually read a vampire novel, but True Blood makes my heart go wild. It stays within my preferred lines (I don't like my vampires going into the sun, though I have enjoyed watching the Twilight series - I'm only human!) As Margot put it, "It reads like a mystery novel."

And that's what I hoped for. Still a lot of cracks to fill and edits to make, but I can't wait for the feedback.

My therapist once told me I'm too social to be a very prolific writer. It's lonely and agitates most people when they sit down determined to write THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL. Ever since she brought me to that STOP sign I've been determined to change it. (She also told me how to change our thinking which has helped me become worlds less morbid!) To anyone trying, these are my suggestions:

- Disconnect your wifi while you're working.
- Download OmmWriter (I wrote the entire thing on this program.)
- Find a comfy spot where you're bathed in sunlight for at least 2-4 hours of writing time.

I'd like to write the next two books in this vampire series as soon as possible. But I am DYING to write a Young Adult zombies series! I've been having dreams as the characters I'm writing. This vampire series might not even take off. I'm prepared for that. But writing is a horse I'll always climb back onto. It wears me out just thinking about it. But what choice do I have?

"Writing stopped being fun when I discovered the difference between good writing and bad and, even more terrifying, the difference between it and true art. And after that, the whip came down." - Truman Capote

As GREAT As The Company You Keep

2011-06-10T16:59:00.000-04:00

Last night I did a reading at Rabbithole Studios - a wonderful spot in Brooklyn that employs starving artists as movers when they're not dishing out incredible literature, paintings or music. One of my most favorite ladies of all time just put together a reading series and flattered me not just by asking me to read, but also by putting me LAST! IT WAS SO MUCH FUN!!! My old knitting group of working artists turned out. I hadn't seen most of them since before I moved to L.A. and at first our hugs were awkward. But by the end of the night I was overcome with such good lovin.

I'm getting corny as I get older, but WOW! People can be SO INCREDIBLE sometimes! I've never been complimented on a reading by so many. That's Brooklyn folk for ya - they look too cool for school, but they've got big ol' hearts. And BABIES!!! Everybody conceived and then birthed a BABY since I left! It was like a baby petting zoo up in that joint! With my biological clock, I felt like an alcoholic standing in a liquor store. (I need an ovaries silencer.) Logan's ready to go, but I just need a little more ME time before I become the slave of an infant.

I read a story that I'd spent pretty much all day yesterday writing. I tried writing it earlier, but there's something about the last minute that sets me ablaze. It's one of the funniest things I've ever written. I still can't believe I turned it out. It's one of those rare creations that makes you wanna high-five yourself.

I used the last line from my stand-up routine to cap this tale off too. It was a line that exited my mouth when Logan and I were having one of those accidental two hour phone calls where we keep working for the other one's laugh. That guy has pulled stuff out of me that I never knew was there. He is incredible. The joy he carries around and his perspective are infectious and they change me for the better. Yeah, I'm in love, and that makes me happy automatically. But being with someone who's always full of compliments, excited about the day, kind to strangers, and cracking jokes is better than winning the lottery. He couldn't be there last night cos they were still auditioning people for his show. But he was certainly with me in spirit.

I fell down pretty early into the night. Haven't worn high heels much these days and busted out an incredible pair of Italian beauties that Tristan scored for me from Benetton for TWELVE DOLLARS!!! That's practically FREE! I was running around the office of the studio and wiped out hard, taking a ladder with me. I fall down so frequently that I was probably a little too casual in asking the very gracious owner to pick me up. When I realized only he and Kate saw it, I was a little disappointed. I bet it was hilarious.

Johnny and Lisa came and it was Johnny's birthday! I LOVE THEM! It was the first time I really got to hang out with Lisa, which is absurd cos they're getting married this year and he's one of my best friends. She's incredible. Laura-Lizzie surprised me by showing up and I couldn't paw at her enough. It's so great having old friends cos you get to watch them grow up. Molly and Amanda joined us at the bar Johnny picked out. I thought we'd grown apart after they put me up during a crazy shift in my life (I thought I'd worn out my welcome.) But it wasn't so. I think getting that time with them last night was probably the happiest thing of all. They'd gotten engaged back when we first got close. I asked last night when they were gonna tie the knot. "When they make it legal," said Molly.

I can't believe that's the answer. But there are people who think by letting gays marry it will somehow rob them of something. (Or cause more tsunamis. Yep.)

Both of the stories I read last night were pretty disturbing, but I felt so elated afterward. I used to be scared of writing like that - that it might tell people the wrong thing about me. A lot of bad things have happened to me, just as they have to all of us. Lemons into lemonade, I suppose. I think that's my strongest voice - the angry, disgruntled, terrorizing one. I think I'm getting better at using it too.

And tonight I get to climb aboard a Jeep with Margot and Jenn - my current favorite ladies - and drive to a tiny cabin upstate for Margot's birthday. These are two of the smartest, funniest, most compassionate women I've ever known. They've been BFFs forever and I always marvel at how generous they are with friends on the outside of their relationship. Jenn's a chef and every time I trek across town to eat at their place - the most stunning home anyone I know has ever owned - I stay so much later than planned. Let me go back to that - Margot BOUGHT an incredible apartment! I have DREAMS about living on their couch! THEIR COUCH! It's stunning! They made brunch for us when Mom was in town and even she can't shut up about it!

This is what I've learned, especially on a day like today: You are the sum of the people you love, so love wisely. Since last night I have been feeling such gratitude to every event that landed me here among these people and on this path. So much was accidental, but my intentions were good. Sometimes that's all they have to be.

Gabe and I were talking the other day about friends letting us down. He's the one who encouraged me to start getting stuff on Amazon. He's been a huge instigator of all things good in my life for almost twenty years now. He told me that he holds all his other friends next to me and they always let him down by comparison. He tells me nearly every time we speak what he loves about me and how much I mean to him. He also laughs enough at the stupid voices I do for him that he makes me feel like the funniest person in the world.

I'd like to believe that I could've gotten to this point on my own, but that isn't how it works. I'm only as good as the people who love me. And today I'm feeling incredible.

Worth Two In The Bush

2011-05-31T15:52:00.005-04:00

I'm recovering from a Mom visit, during which she spoiled us with new clothes and some PHENOMENAL eats! I'm hoping all the walking we did evened it out. It was so much freakin' fun, despite the heat. NYC didn't get Spring this year. We jumped right from Winter to Summer. There are worse things that could happen, I suppose. I've been to Central Park nearly every day for a week and I'm back in love with this disgruntled bitch of a town!

Logan and I were on our third honeymoon two weeks ago, before Logan started working as an Associate Producer at Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? (I am REALLY proud of him!) He gets to travel a lot for casting purposes and we're already trying to figure out how I can tag along (Chicago in July!) More importantly, we need to get enough money saved up to go to Europe for a few weeks before Baby Season hits. (I hear it lasts about 18 years.) And probably more important than all of that is moving. I cringe over that word because I've done it so many times now. I've had more homes and jobs than anyone I've ever met (Army brats included.) And then I went ahead and married someone very similar to myself. We're moving together for the second time but this time, we're movin' on UP!

We're looking on the Upper West Side - the REAL one. NOT Washington Heights (a filthier term than "moving!") I have hated few things more than our year in this neighborhood. It wasn't planned - we had an apartment in Fort Greene through a friend of mine but everything went haywire as soon as we arrived. So we scrambled while staying at Nat and Chuck's as they vacationed in France. Their building doesn't allow pets so several times a day we had to travel aaaaall the way from West 184th St. down, down, down into Brooklyn to walk the dogs. TWAS TORTURE!!! All day we apartment-hunted, walked dogs, and sweated our faces off. Our apartment hunting had the fantastic timing of occuring during a heat wave. I don't know how we did it, but we managed to find a decent place after about two weeks of this madness. We didn't have jobs - just savings. It wasn't easy finding a place we were sure we could afford. But we did. It's big and lovely, has a park outside (which I can't enter alone unless I'm in the mood for a lil' sexual assault), and it's along the water with a lovely view of the Bronx. Poor Bronx. It's next to Yeshiva University, incredibly cheap, and surrounded by a culture that I'd prefer to live very far from at this point in my life.

So we're looking on the Upper West Side! I still don't have a job but my Amazon sales are bringing in an alarming amount of money on just my short story stuff. I'm about to publish the first book I ever FINISHED writing. It's a Young Adult novel about vampires. I don't feel like revealing more than that yet, except that WOW! I WROTE A BOOK! And now I know it isn't nearly as difficult as I told myself it'd be.

Two weekends ago we were walking the girls along the rapey little park on the hillside of our street. Logan has flushed out several lovable quirks in the girls that make me love all three of them more than I thought possible. Since Winter, the girls have forgotten what birds are. So when they see them now they get all amped up, barking and lunging even at the filthiest of pigeons. Logan will take their leashes and run at top speed up and down the sidewalk, clearing all the birds present and sending lice and vermin into the air. Tis magical.

This weekend when we crossed the street to the lil' brick wall shaded in all those fresh trees, Daisy spotted a nearby critter and lunged for it. I never worry - the birds always fly away before she can reach them. But this time the little guy didn't take flight. Daisy could have caught it, but lucky for me, that is not her nature. She just pranced around it barking her raspy, high-pitched puppy-like bark (I rescued them from breeders who had Daisy's vocal cords zapped, producing an adorable yet pathetic bark.) She'd found a baby bird! We have about two dozen stray cats in the area, several arrogant raccoons, and many speeding cars. The little bird couldn't quite fly and I knew he/she wouldn't make it through the night with so many villainous mammals in our hood. I left the dogs with Logan, raced back upstairs, dumped out my sewing box, grabbed a kitchen towel, and came back downstairs to rescue it. Logan had run into a yorkie who's fallen in love with Dolly (too bad for him that she's a total lesbian with no interest in boy dogs.) I tried shooing the little bird into my box but ended up scaring it under a parked van. And that's when it really got good.

Logan traded places with me. I held the dogs as he tried chasing the baby bird out from under the van - for an HOUR. While watching cars speed past him I couldn't help wondering if I'd be widowed over this. Then I thought about that chicken I'd eaten for lunch and felt really stupid. Eventually I took the girls back upstairs, got the box's lid and returned to help Logan. We broke off leafy tree branches and brushed the little guy back toward the sidewalk. Logan came down quickly with the box, catching him/her. The little guy emitted an indignant, "CHIRIP!" just as the box plopped down around it.

As we walked inside the building Logan asked, "This isn't a baby pigeon, right?"

"Ew! No!" I replied, feeling like a hypocrit.

Upstairs I lined the box with newspaper and Logan forced a bit of branch in there, insisting it would make the bird feel more at home. I found bits of fabric and pulled apart cotton balls. The sun was setting and it was cold outside. Logan said when I was upstairs retrieving a box several different mama birds had fed our little buddy. My plan was to keep it on the fire escape so the mama birds could continue feeding it (we were wise about not touching it so that our stink wouldn't put them off.)

But it was too cold to put the baby bird on the fire escape since the sun was setting. So we covered the box and left it in the bedroom. Then we watched hours of extreme sports while I knitted Margot's birthday present until the sun started to rise. I don'tt know how we ended up on such a weird schedule. Outside the birds along the park began chirping. We peeked in on our little guest and OH, how adorable! Baby Bird was all tucked into his/her own little body sleeping under scraps of fabric! It opened its little eyes and caught me standing there lookin' a fool. But it seemed like it was getting used to me. By 5:30am we'd tied the box to the fire escape and taped an umbrella overhead in case it rained. We laid in bed listening to hungry chirps, checking to see mama birds feeding him/her, and fell asleep as I told Logan I need to be a vegetarian again.

When we woke around noon the baby was gone. I have mixed feelings about this. I know that a cat couldn't reach it. I know that the bird couldn't have gotten out of that box unless it could fly, so it must have flown away. I'm very optimistic the latter is what occurred. The wings seemed fully formed. Maybe it had already been capable of flight but stubbed itself and just needed a time-out. Whatever the case, it definitely would have been killed had we left it on the ground that evening. I witnessed enough horrible animal deaths growing up that this ending was welcomed.

We were all energized for some reason, despite our all-nighter and lack o' sleep. So we took the girls to The Cloisters and had "breakfast" under a tree on a blanket. When I sat down on the blanket, Daisy threw her paws up into the air leapt into my lap with such giddiness that I screamed in her face with delight. When you rescue a dog there is a constant sense of gratitude. I don't think I've ever loved anything more than the three mamals with whom I currently reside. Even when Logan and I start arguing and our tones change, Dolly jumps into my lap and licks at my face incessantly as though saying, "Let it go! It's not worth it! You guys love each other!"

She is SUCH a Virgo.

People react to our dogs - big time. I told Logan that I know how men with trophy wives feel. I'm always thinking, "Yeah, you wish you could handle my lil' beauties..."

Sometimes I think of this later as I rub all up on them. Much the way I do when gay men shout things out to my husband, such as, "Helloooooooo, Bright Eyes!" We had a waiter at Norma's this weekend who reacted as though the highlight of his life was waiting on Logan. He's always so sweet with men and women who flirt with him. I love his kindness.

A groundhog appeared nearby and amazed the girls (and Logan too.) An old man started rambling about wild animals coming so close to people is a sign that they have rabies. I told Logan, it's a sign that they live in NEW YORK CITY. I've yet to meet a wild animal here that freaked out over my presense. There's a skunk we run into rather frequently by Nat and Chuck's apartment. I think it would let me pet it, but Logan never lets me get close enough to find out. He makes fun of me when I stand on the corner warning pedestrians to cross the street away from it. He accuses me of wanting the skunk all to myself, but actually I'm an experienced skunk fiend is all! Those people would most likely scream and get sprayed.

We took the girls to the dog run nearby where they stole the show, even from the tiny 1.5 pound chihuahua thing and it's cohort Pomeranian friend who had her claws painted pink and was wearing a dress. A DRESS! For our dogs I have coats and sweaters (which I knitted) but a DRESS?! What does a dog need a dress for?! The same dog rolled up in a stroller - FOR DOGS! I can barely sit still long enough to paint my own nails, let alone those of my dogs. That's just bonkers. Of all the people with cute little dogs in the dog run, ours were the only ones adopted. SHAAAAAAAAAAME. And ours were the most dazzling. Recently I had a couple friends buy dogs and I can't help getting really pissed off by the excuses people make. "But I couldn't fiiiiiind the breed I was looking for!"

I had to drive two hours into the desert to pick up my dogs because I wanted a specific breed too. Where there's a will there's a way. They weren't nearly as cute as they've become after being bred pretty hard, so the development of their fluffy coats was a sort of reward for my unconditional love. If you look at the statistics of pet sales and the number of pet giveaways, you'll see that it's not that difficult to rescue exactly the breed you want. (And now I'm feeling guilty about not wanting to bring a baby pigeon into my house.) I won't even buy pet items from a store that sells puppies. Nope! Oh crap, I am totally gonna go vegan again...

I've had a lot of pets, and I mean A LOT. It's only since I've entered my baby-making years that I've gotten this good at keeping up with their needs, and I mean ALL of their needs. These two aren't spoiled but there's consistency, organic dogfood, probiotic powder, fortified dog treats, frequent baths, and yes, hand-knitted sweaters. This weekend I realized I don't even need to have kids - I'm pretty satisfied with my perfect little dogs. I'm living for a summer of taking them to Central Park to frolic! I need to live close to nature - I realize that in my old(er) age. Things are going so well lately that it's hard to imagine leaving NYC (as we kept threatening this last winter.) I'm excited to see what happens with this first novel when I publish it. I'm not trying to get an agent either - just kinda coasting. I'm not opposed, but after reading about all the writers who are hitting the jackpot on self-publishing, I figured I'd jump on board. You never know. The book I wrote is good. I'm trying to make it better. Writing is the easy part - it's the editing that's hard. (I'm lying - it's ALL hard!) And now Logan is pitching TV ideas. Just reality, for now, because that's where he's working. But we've got some great stuff that we want to produce together someday. Sometimes I feel like the wife of a politician, knowing all the crazy secretive behind-the-scenes stuff that I now get to hear about so many shows and celebs. I feel like we're on the cusp of something extraordinary. Yes, money is fantastic, but there is NOTHING like a deposit in the bank for doing what you love to do. HOLY CRAP, it changes your LIFE! I am the happiest version of me that I've ever been.

On Friday night Mom and I saw a concert at The Beacon for Wavy Gravy's birthday (that guy is not of this world!) I can't get over some of the show stoppers who performed, but my favorite (always) was Ani Difranco. There is no one who wrangles a guitar like that lil' gal! Watching her perform, as always, I felt pure love. Love for everybody and everything, even when she's singing an angry tune. Mostly she makes me super excited about being me - about being here and being anybody with a shot at what I want out of this world. She crooned:

If you're not getting happier as you get older...
Then you're fucking up!

Wiser words, never spoken. This is my current meditation on the subway, before bed, and always, when I'm in the park.

A Book Review!

2011-05-18T13:54:00.001-04:00

I'm terrible at this "Please review my book" thing, but fortunately, Bob McLain, writer at Disney Dispatch found my collection of short stories on his own. Today he posted a wonderful review that made my WEEK! In a few days I'll post a link to my follow-up interview with Disney Dispatch (and maybe I'll start submitting some stuff for review since it feels oh-so grand!)

Put Him Down Like Old Yeller

2011-05-03T02:07:00.002-04:00

Two nights ago Logan called me into the livingroom for breaking news. I was busy trying to make a deadline but when I saw news of Osama Bin Ladin goin' down, all of that writing stuff went out the window. I can tell you that yes, I am a vengeful person by nature (though I like to blame my Venus landing in Scorpio.) But to defend my personal bloodlust, I was here for 9/11. I woke up in time to watch the second plane hit. I was living in our old apartment in Chelsea. I say "our" cos my ex-fiance' Allan (whose birthday was yesterday) had gone to work that morning. He called home to wake me just in time.

I'd left him a few weeks prior but returned when I didn't like being alone. The night before the attack I'd almost slept over at another man's apartment. He tried to bribe me to stay, offering again to take me shopping the next day (he was such a lawyer!) I didn't want to stick to anyone at that time, especially someone who offered money up as though it was a character trait. I was in a transitional phase and only good on my own. That night I walked from Broadway and 8th Street back to 8th Ave and 18th Street to "our" little tiny apartment. I no longer have the dress I was wearing - it was later deemed too slutty for my maturing tastes. I carried high heels in my hands and sang showtunes at the top of my lungs on my barefoot walk home. I wasn't drunk. I was finally taking on my independence. It wasn't another man I needed - it was plain ol' courage. I was done fighting with NYC and decided this was where I belonged. Homeless people called out niceties to me and I wished them all a fantastic night. As I crossed 7th Avenue, I toasted the Twin Towers with my high heels held overhead, singing at the top of my lungs, "If I can make it there I'll make it - BUMP, BUMP - ANYWHERE!"

A week later I watched a child stand on that same corner, look down the avenue and ask his mother, "Where are the towers?"

People always ask me if I was here for it - people in other places who see New York City as a tattoo on your timeline, letting everyone know that you're an artistic masochist who rejects the norm. It was hard on me trying to stay here in the beginning. I didn't have anyone to help. I had to drop out of NYU cos there just wasn't any money. Most weekends when the college cafeteria was closed I had to go without food. I was ashamed of this and sometimes my roommate would return early Sunday night from her parents' home in New Jersey and order us a pizza.

Allan came from money and sometimes I wonder if he's the only reason I was able to remain in this city. We moved in together almost immediately. I loved him - he's a good guy. But actors are too much maintenance for me, even the exceptional ones. But when I left him to return to Florida, I realized I didn't want to be there either. I didn't want to start over. He took me back in as an experiment for both of us. We were allowed to see other people, which never really helps. I still believe we came back together just in time and for very good reason.

Allan walked all the way from the upper eastside because transportation had shut down and most of the cabbies were fleeing from the city. He dropped his backpack as soon as he came through the door and burst into tears. We held each other crying. He was sweaty and filthy from the debris. We immediately headed to St. Vincent's to give blood, to give anything we could. The stillness is what I remember the most. Nothing moved. It was as though the city had died and we were all just zombies roaming its streets, making eye contact with one another for the first time in all of New York City's history. We looked into the eyes of everyone we passed, all of us looking for the people we loved, just in case.

We tried giving blood, but they didn't need it. We walked for miles looking for something we could do. In Union Square there were banners being made. Most of us wrote encouraging words for everyone missing someone they loved. But there were plenty who wrote about bombing others. An eye for an eye was a very strong attitude. We even passed a teenager wearing a t-shirt that read: BOMB PAKISTAN

I couldn't believe we'd reached that point already.

The movie theater at 14th Street had signs posted offering free movies playing on a loop all day. No one's phones worked yet. Allan and I were trying to find some way to help. We eventually returned home to watch the news. Over and over we saw footage of those planes hit the towers. And then there were the jumpers. Finally my cell phone buzzed with twenty-seven messages from people who loved me. Some of them cried, scared because I didn't answer. I worked as a temp at the World Financial Center which was attached to the Trade Center. I passed through the Trade Center when I exited the train each morning. The message that stays with me most is from my cousin. She was sobbing and said, "I know you're okay because you have to be okay, Angie."

I burst into laughter and began to dance around our apartment as Allan cried, retrieving his messages. He looked at me like I was a leprechaun who'd just told him a really dirty joke. I explained how lucky we were - we were SO LUCKY! We were safe, along with all of our friends. I couldn't help it - I was ecstatic.

But then we spent days trapped on the island, running from bomb threats and walking to most destinations since the subway was out of the question. The city came back to life but felt like a graveyard. Everywhere you looked were shrines with candles, tokens, flowers and MISSING posters. Sometimes you'd catch the same face in two different parts of the city and for a moment you felt that you'd found someone. The missing never came back. And it took less than two months for me to realize that Allan and I were done.

When I saw George W. on the TV that day, promising all of us that this crime would be punished and we'd all be kept safe, I finally felt a connection to him. I know he was a glorified puppet, but I needed to hear those words. It was one of the only moments during his presidency that I felt secure with our commander-in-chief. He was not the man for whom I voted, but as he stood under our flag making promises, I felt a tremendous amount of patriotism come over me. I was proud of my country and of our leader. That didn't last very long, but in those moments of helplessness, even George W. looked good.

Cut to many years later: What I can't understand is how so many personal newsfeeds have been critical of President Obama. If there was ever a time to feel united, this is it. Today was not about democrats or republicans - it was about our country coming together to defeat an evil that's threatened us for a long time. It's disheartening to see so many Americans continue to express their disdain of our current president's course of action on a day like today. And then there were the conspiracy theorists who think we've simply struck a deal with Bin Laden to stay quiet and we'll let him live. As though there's nothing Bin Laden would love more than to stand up and shout, "Here I am, stupid Americans!"

But in the end, the Tweets and Facebook updates that bothered me the most are the people quoting Martin Luther King, Jr., Gandhi, and anyone else who once spoke with a Taoist attitude. There was almost nothing more condescending than that. This is a man who just used a woman as a human shield the day before. This is the man responsible for thousands of American deaths - a man without empathy or tolerance. This is someone who robbed hundreds of thousands of their loved ones. And the morning after his body is dumped in the sea we're seriously expected to show compassion? To treat him like a human being and not the monster he was?

Logan and I watch A LOT of serial killer biographies. There are few things that excite me like a real live killer. It fascinates me that someone can cross that line and harm people in such a manner (also, despite my rosy exterior, I am secretly morbid - more so than most people can believe.) The day before Osama was killed, we watched the Biography special on Jeffrey Dahmer. Blame the childhood video footage coupled with interviews of his loving father, but Jeffrey Dahmer really bummed us out. He was misshapen somewhere around puberty and he actually felt empathy for those he killed. Dahmer was certainly a product of society oppressing its homosexuals, yet there was certainly a big piece of humanity that was missing from him. At the trial he chose to read a letter of remorse to the family members of his victims. There was such a striking loneliness to it that I couldn't help it - I wanted to hug Jeffrey Dahmer. I wanted to push the hair away from his eyes, let him have a good cry in my lap, and then hold his hand as we walk to the gas chamber.

When you call something "Capital Punishment" you misdirect your audience. You can punish someone with torture but with death you're releasing them. No matter what you believe, that person is gone and we no longer get a say in their punishment. I don't believe in Capital Punishment but I do believe in the death penalty, though not as it stands. In the cases of serial killers, yes, we must put them down. I'd even go so far as to terminate the lives of sex offenders simply because it is not possible to rehabilitate them. I don't want their deaths for any other reason than to protect ourselves. You can cry at the end of Old Yeller, but you know it was the only way to handle a rabid dog.

I rejoiced last night and today. Again, I danced a jig in my livingroom. We ended up downtown and I was happy to see excited tourists who'd been lucky enough to book their trip during this historical event. I'm thrilled he's dead. It's about ridding the world of a boogeyman whose only desire was to harm others. And when I think about the images from 9/11 I can't help it - I'm vengeful. It's easy to quote Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr. and your morning teabag, but I know very few people who operate on such a level (and the ones who are living that righteous life rarely need to borrow from the mouths of others.) As long as I can feel compassion for the likes of Jeffrey Dahmer, I'd say that I'm on an acceptable path with my giddiness over Bin Laden's death. It's also been a really long time since America had a good hero moment - let's just enjoy it.

A Reading!

2011-04-28T17:32:00.001-04:00

Angela Lovell, "Mouseschawitz - My Summer Job of Concentrated Fun" I'll be reading a new comedic piece of flash fiction at Rabbittales Reading and Performance Series that will most likely be added to this short collection of stories. (I've ended up in Amazon's Top Ten for Essays several times this month for that very collection!) I've been getting some weird feedback where people don't believe the stories are true. They're all true! But the piece I'll be reading should be categorized as a sort of "fan fiction." Theme: FLASH! Readings by:Angela Lovell, Sharon Polli, Chanel Dubofsky Musical performances by: Brian Russ and Backwords Music Twinkies and wine will be served and, as always, the gallery will be well-stocked by some ferociously talented artists. www.rabbitholestudio.com
When:	Thursday, June 9, 2011, 7:00 PM
Where:	Rabbithole Studios, 33 Washington St., Brooklyn, NY, United States 11201

Too Hungry To Sing da Blues

2011-04-27T17:12:00.003-04:00

My mom learned she has precancerous cells on her face and within two minutes of receiving this news I dropped the last of Sunday's delicious meatloaf on the floor. Bad day for me, great day for the dogs.

When the universe talks, I listen. The message today seems to be along the lines of: Wear your sunscreen and go vegetarian.

Both of those are better for you than their alternatives. So I went with the flow of events. I ate the broccoli I'd steamed and now there's a frozen meal of Indian chickpeas in the toaster oven. (Incidentally, the plastic from this is melting and while I avoid microwaves for health reasons, I'm pretty sure I'm about to poison my system with the toxins from plastic.)

As I wait for my "meal" the dogs are writhing and snorting on the couch like pigs in mud. Their giddiness is RUDE AND UNCALLED FOR! (I shouted this last part so they could hear it.) I'm so mad. Last night Logan got out of work early (it was a mere eight hour day instead of his usual fourteen hour one.) I wanted to go outside but he wanted to watch Jeopardy and nap beneath the dogs. This pissed me off so when he offered me some meatloaf I rejected it to show how BORING everything in the apartment is. REGRET! Now I'm learning hard that a girl needs to take meatloaf where she can get it. (Unless she goes back to vegetarianism, as she should.)

I know what you're thinking. It was just meatloaf. A loaf of meat. But you've obviously never eaten this meatloaf. It has fresh basil, provolone cheese, and chopped tomatoes (along with the obvious ketchup and bread crumbs, of course.) This loaf of meat was SHEER MAGIC! And now the pit in my stomach rumbles in mourning.

I'm sure it seems as though my priorities stink right now, what with my mom's medical report. But she'll be fine. The doctor assured her that a little zap of liquid nitrogen will get all those funky cells outta there. Yes, I'm nervous about it anyway. Maybe that's why I'm obsessing over the meatloaf that my showboating pomeranians are currently digesting. Maybe I'm deflecting from Mom's medical issue along with the completion of my first novel which is supposed to happen today. Or maybe that meatloaf was just that delicious. I guess we'll never know.

In the meantime, I should walk these little porkers to the deli to get some ice cream that they can later watch me eat. Atta girl!

Daisy Pleads Her Case

2011-04-21T00:25:00.000-04:00

After we were married Logan banned the dogs from our bed. No TV in the bedroom and no dogs in the bed - our compromise at keeping romance alive. But then there was really scary construction on the floor beneath us and the little girls would shake with fear. I HAD to pick them up from the scary ground and put them in bed with me! It would be animal abuse if I didn't! But then I just kinda kept doing it. And Logan discovered our secret due to Daisy leaving some tell-tale dog fur on the duvet (lipstick on the collar, as it were.) So now the dogs are banished to the floor. It's a terrible fate. In this video Daisy performs a monologue she's obviously worked very hard on.

(Production notes: Dolly is wearing a Snuggie For Dogs purchased for her by Aunt Angela and Uncle Jason, while Daisy sports an original sweater which I knitted for her.)

Why Does The Caged Frog Sing?

2011-04-14T01:26:00.002-04:00

Welcome to my menagerie

Today was a glorious day. I've written nearly 50,000 words of my first young adult novel and it's almost finished. Well, the first draft is almost complete. I know when the feedback comes in there will be tons to change and this concern is keeping me from racing across the finish line. UGH. I've sold well over 100 Ebooks this month and will probably break 200 by the time these April showers dissipate. To celebrate we ordered from Fresh Direct and when Logan got home from today's shoot he carried in a giant box of flowers for me that he'd pulled from the leftover wedding episode. We were supposed to get fake-married on this episode but then the producers found a real unwed couple. However, this couple couldn't supply fifty friends so thirty extras were hired. Shoulda used us! We're busting at the seams with friends (very photogenic ones at that!)

This week has been good with the exception of Daisy having a weird hacking cough. She's gotten Kennel Cough before, usually because I was stupid enough to let her drink from a communal water bowl at Runyon Canyon (shudder!) But this came right after she'd been chewing on rawhide. Eep. Guilt. Shame. The idiot at Petco swore to me that compressed rawhide was different. But much like dating a bi-sexual, rawhide will never change, no matter how much it promises it's "gone straight." I Googled like mad after she puked in the middle of the night. Then the constipation set in. But we've had two good days during which her poop has been magnifique! So it looks like she's in the clear. Except for that cough. I was hopeful that it might be a hairball. I spent most of Monday grooming the girls which included a faux hawk for Daisy and a teddy bear cut for Wools. THEY LOOK AMAZING!!! But I jumped the gun a bit on the weather being warm so they're forced to wear the sweaters I knitted them. (Operation: Sweater Wear worked perfectly.)

Ever since I adopted these two crazy little dogs my life feels complete. I know a lot of people who aren't at all excited about animals and it baffles me. Sometimes when I'm trolling the Pets section on Craigslist it hits me: I'm like a married man looking at the Casual Encounters section just to "see what else is out there." I don't need more pets. Yet just like that loser husband, I wouldn't mind having more to squeeze. But then I look into the warm brown eyes of my tiny redheasd and I feel very satisfied. Until I end up in Petco's basement trying to figure out what to feed a frog that I'm buying.

Logan has furnished our apartment with $2000 worth of white leather dining chairs and many other accents from the set - stuff that we weren't going to buy since we're pretty sure this move back to NYC was just to "get it out of our systems." I think we're going back to Hollywood and maybe quite soon. If it's soon, that means something freakingunbelievablyawesome took off for one of us (I can't jinx it!) Okay, but it's not me - it's Logan. If I go back to L.A. it's because Winter cripples my soul and I also want to grow fruit trees. I've learned that I can be a writer anywhere. New York is so oppressive. I need to live where I can't hear my neighbors unless they're killing each other with amped up chainsaws. I also want a real yard for my wee Sheebas. And a fish pond. And a chicken coop that I built with my own two hands, housed with hens whom I cradle in my arms daily (picture Mike Tyson smoochin' all up on his pigeons but CUTER!)

After much cuddling and Chinese food, Logan passed out. He's working 12+ hour days and I'm so impressed and proud of him. I've been staying busy getting to write all day while a man supports me. Hey, it happens. I supported him just a few months ago. I've never had a partner that's so generous. It's all "our" money and nobody gets petty about it. It's little things like this that I never thought I'd find in someone to whom I was so spellbindingly attracted. I attribute all of his amazing characteristics to a very long awkward phase that built worlds of character. He's the total package.

When we first crossed the friend line (after the new year - I needed that much alone time before I could start rubbing someone else's stink all over myself) Logan had informed me, "I don't do flowers. Never have, never will."

Flowers shmowers. But he'd also never been in love before. I don't think a week has passed without him bringing me flowers - even if he snagged them from the set of a televised wedding. He'd also told me he would never get down on one knee to propose. Um, cut to just a few months later on my WELCOME mat...

When I get goofy over the dogs, the fish, the snails and the frog, Logan tolerates it like a champ. Tonight I was writing while listening to the creepy creaking that's been coming from the wall we share with our obnoxiously loud neighbors. I assumed they had some sort of oscillating fan or something over there to produce this eery sound. I'm also on edge from watching Insidious over a week ago. The other night I turned off the lights and then thought, "INSIDIOUS!"

I ran for the bathroom but misjudged where it lives, running into the doorframe and cracking my skull so hard that cartoon tweety birds fell out of it. Insidious also inspired me to watch a bunch of ghost hunter shows which completely wrecked me. Can a ghost hunter show give you diarrhea? Maybe not you, but it did me.

So I'm sitting here tonight in dim yet adorable lighting, listening to this creek when it FINALLY dawns on me that THE CALL IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE HOUSE!!!

By "call" I mean "CROAK" and by "house" I mean "FISHBOWL."

My tiny African dwarf frog, about an inch when he's all stretched out, is making that noise. (This is almost exactly what it sounds like.) I read that they sing to attract mates, establish dominance over territory, or to announce rain (Good call, Frog, it's been raining A LOT.) I don't care why, I love it! Now that I know it's my sweet little frog the noise has completely changed for me. Now it's endearing and adorable - just like my husband's twitching!

I'm also pretty sure that I'll need to "sex" a few frogs at the pet store and find a nice lady for my little gentleman chirper. They say if you get a pear-shaped one she's ready for breeding! (So true.) We can afford one more tiny mouth to feed. I just hope my little man frog is prepared to do the knee and flower thing. The ladies are total suckers for that crap!

Alone Time Doesn't Have To Be Lonely

2011-04-05T01:27:00.002-04:00

Today started out alone but I returned home with two fish, two snails, a frog, and my old chums, Ben and Jerry.

The best alone time of my life was when I fit everything I owned into two suitcases and moved to Scotland. I got there just a few hours before turning 30 and didn't stay nearly long enough. Everyday I either took the bus or was dropped by my aunt in Edinburgh. I didn't have a lot of plans. I was sad about aging and about dumping a less worthy creature to whom I'd been very generous with my love. My family was there and it was good to be with them, but for the most part I wandered around alone. I rode a ferris wheel alone. I ate meals alone. I saw museums, cemeteries and castles alone. It was one of those phases when I didn't know if I should get a tattoo, start dating women or study photography. But something had to change about me.

I moved back to NYC and as always, Nat and Chuck took me in. In several weeks I'd landed enough freelancing gigs to pay the rent and built my first website (with much assistance from Chuck in between our many trilogy-a-thons.) But before I came back there was a week I spent in London that reset everything.

I thought a lot about the kind of person I should be with. Strangely, my now husband (then friend) came to mind more than anyone else at that time (He still has a postcard I'd sent him from the UK.) But then I got to London where I had a little room with an electric tea kettle, a sink I could pee in late at night when the community bathroom was too scary, and a single bed. I woke every morning before anything was open, too excited to sleep. I wandered the streets until everything closed, and returned to my room where I propped my legs against the wall while I laid on the bed to make them stop hurting. When men made eyes at me I turned my own down. When I was approached, I clammed up. I wasn't shy - there was just so space for someone else and I didn't have the right words to make a stranger understand. That was the week my heart stopped hurting. That was the week that I finally worked things out with myself.

I fantasize about that time in my life more than any other. It was so exciting - like the beginning of a love affair. And I suppose it was a love affair of one.

I married Logan very quickly and kept searching my subconscious to feel out whether this was real or what a woman in her 30's does to escape the loneliness. Each time the searching came up with the same thing: This was nothing to do with being alone. This was about being with someone incredible.

Logan's been gone since Sunday morning. They're shooting upstate at a B&B and he gets back tomorrow night. I miss him like crazy, but when he told me he was going a part of me stretched out and took up some space. I was excited about being undisturbed for three days. But now I want him to come home.

Nat and baby Jake came over yesterday. We ate Chinese food and went to the park. Nat is an example of why I want to have children. Jake makes her a better person. Tomorrow night I'm watching Burlesque with Nat and Ang 2 (we're like Thing 1 and Thing 2 - I just had the good sense to appear first.) Nobody wants to see Burlesque. It's an obligation for us to watch a film that has so many wigs, dance moves, and divas.

And today I interviewed for something I really want after writing a ton of my book. Then I went to the pet store where I picked up some chewy things for the girls and all those little aqua babies I mentioned earlier (I don't like empty fish bowls in the house.) New York City was in good spirits today with the weather getting warmer. I realized it'll kill me to move back West and I hate that I'm such a sucker for this town. In 1998 I got out of a cab and into a dorm room overlooking Washington Square Park. Other NYUers nicknamed me "Baby Spice" because I was naive and ridiculously dressed (so many pastels!) I wised up pretty quickly. It was back when this town had more prostitutes, drugs, and homeless people. It was just before Giuliani wiped them away. I'm glad I made it in time to see what all the fuss was about. This city gave me backbone and as corny as it sounds, this is where I grew up. I wasn't a woman before NYC (Baby Spice), but once I got here I had to become one fast or I'd be run down.

There are many single people in this city but none of my "single" friends really feel singular to me. This city is like the hottest date you'll ever have. There's so much freakin' zest and bustle. I tell people all the time that my deal with New York is like an abusive relationship: No one knows what it's like when we're alone together.

In past relationships I'd have dreams about ending them and moving in with a bunch of girls, free to have pink bedding and Pomeranians. There's a lot of space to have things your way when you haven't committed to someone and for that reason I really never believed in marriage. Logan tolerates my pink glass lamp and he loves the dogs. I love him. And I love my own company quite a bit too. I don't know how to be a writer, trapped all up in my head without loving myself first (but I presume whiskey would be involved, especially if you ask Hemingway.) I've made my peace with being alone. No matter what the circumstances, it's still pretty precious.

Today was swell. And tonight I get to sleep with the dogs who are generally banned from the bed (pet owners are never truly "alone.") But I miss Logan just for his Logany traits - not for the reassurance his presence would give me. And that's how I know it's worth giving up my girly bedroom. Now let's just hope he likes the new frog (cos it's staying.)

Why I Want James Durbin To Win American Idol (And At LIFE) - A Rhapsody of My Husband

2011-04-03T01:35:00.004-04:00

I'd never watched American Idol because I was still clinging to hipster aspirations and didn't approve of reality TV. I worked for the show in 2004 and I'm even friends with David Archuleta. We met during my last stint of living in Hollywood. (He is the most lovable guy you will ever meet and good luck not wanting to kiss all over his beautiful, sweet face!)

It was only recently that I became so emotionally invested in American Idol. Last night I had dinner with two of the brightest and coolest ladies to ever grace the upper east side. Our conversation entered The Passion Zone when Idol came up. They're on Team Casey (meh) and I'm all for James. (Though we can all agree that Pia is not of this world and should be crowned Queen of The Universe.)

The word "arrogant" came up to describe James and it can't be denied. The kid is a Capricorn after all (power is life blood to you guys.) Sometimes when I watch him get a little full of himself I shout out at the TV, "No, James! You'll lose your people! Be humble!"

He's incredibly talented and therefor slightly entitled to a bloated ego. But why I adore James Durbin is for two very strong, non-Idol related reasons:

1) The early footage of him talking about his wife and baby (The corny line "I met an angel" has never been delivered with more sincerity and preciousness.)

AND

2) He has Tourette Syndrome.

My husband also has Tourettes and I can't begin to describe the way something like this can endear a person to you. Neither of them shout swear words - they have the kind where the only offenses produced are in the form of ticks and twitches. When Logan and I were strung together by a friendship fraught with sexual tension, he would often bust into a slew of adorable shoulder, hand, and neck jerks. He wasn't aware of these movements but when I'd walk behind him at Home Depot on yet another trip to get apartment stuff for me, I'd swoon over the spasms his body underwent in my presence. Since we've been married, he twitches a lot less.

I was laying next to him in bed just now when a fit of giggles overcame me and I had to get up to write this. He was also grinding his teeth - a less appealing quirk of his that produces the most ungodly sound (it kind of sounds like a dying duck.) He's been working as an Associate Producer on a super fun design show and because he's usually so exhausted, the teeth grinding hasn't been all that bad lately. However, he got a lot of sleep this weekend so his chompers are in full swing tonight.

We haven't seen each other much lately. He's been working 12 hour days and I've been finishing my first novel (FINALLY!) I miss him but his work ethic is way too impressive for me to be upset that he's gone so much. He maintains the most amazing attitude too. I've never known anyone like this. And when I see him at the end of the day, too worn out for any twitching or spazzing, my heart often leaps into my throat. I can't believe I can love somebody so much. He's a stubborn pain in my ass and he fights just like me (dirty), but he has the most infectious laugh. And as I told him tonight, he's so incredibly hot that I easily forgot the parts I don't like (yeah, I said it.) His surprisingly good vocabulary betrays his disarming dumb guy routine, and I've seriously never been so affected by a man's shirtlessness. My BFF, Gabe, has accused me of being a lesbian since I was sixteen years old because I never check out attractive men. I just don't notice a guy until he makes me laugh. And for that, Logan is the best.

I could continue, and I'm sure I will if I keep up with this blog. But now I hear Logan rustling around in bed wondering where I am in between that bizarre quacking (it's the "Swan Song" of his tooth enamel!) We each produce way too much body heat to cuddle in a normal climate, but we usually hold hands or share a pillow in bed. And I don't know what it means, but I like that we're both human fireballs. I have to return to that, but first I want the world to know why I root so vehemently for James Durbin. When I see him twitching up there, blinking his eyes and staring into the camera without any idea that his facial ticks are stealing the show, all I can think of is Logan the afternoon we'd helped a friend move. On the second load to her new apartment, I got back into the cab of his truck and noticed sticking out of my bag was a little bouquet of pink flowers he'd pulled from a tree. We were still in the Friend Zone but it sent my heart all aflutter. Logan backed out of the driveway with a giggle and a shoulder twitch that made me afraid he'd crash the truck and kill us all.

But he didn't. And now we're on the path toward happily-ever-aftering it up. And hopefully James Durbin stays humble enough that America wants it for him too.

"Scratch most feminists and underneath there is a woman who longs to be a sex object. The difference is that is not all she wants to be." ~Betty Rollin

2011-03-25T11:22:00.006-04:00

The remarkably stunning Elizabeth Taylor joined the angels this week and I'm sure that plenty of those gals upstairs were pissed to see her coming. 36C x 21" x 36" - not of this world! Women don't look like that anymore and while I know a lot of it is because we're now free-roaming hens without corset-training, it's also because we're encouraged to be skinny. Absurdly skinny. Or really toned. But no matter what, we are to have big boobs. I like boobs. Don't get me wrong. If I was into rubbin' on ladies I'd totally be boobs-over-butt. But if I was boobless I'm not sure I'd take measures to have them wedged between my flesh and ribs.

If a man approached you with a knife, you'd run fast enough to leave a Wyle E. Coyote cloud of dust. So how are so many women getting their chests cut open, nipples relocated, noses broken, tummies tucked, needles in the face, and fat sucked outta their thighs? SERIOUSLY. If I was offered free liposuction I'd laugh right in the face of that generous, yet wasted-practice, doctor. I only wanna be cut, pricked or prodded if something major ails me. I'm hoping to have natural childbirth (also known as "Feminist Machoism") and pop out my future bebes like a cave woman. I look at my tiny little dogs, rescued from a life of constant breeding and I think, "If they can do it without heavy meds so can I!"

A couple of my friends have tried botox recently. I get it. I squint too. I don't like aging either. But botox is still so new and they've discovered that traces of it stay lodged in your spine. YOUR SPINE! I never did acid for that same reason and I'm planning to age without venom too.

But let's get real - I can say I'll have natural childbirth and I can say I'll never do the snippy-snip body stuff, but that's all very easy to announce while my boobies still lay on top of my chest when I go to bed at night. But I'd like to do this - I'd like to age au natural and see how that feels. Of course, I'd planned to shave my head on my 40th birthday and already have the good sense to nix that.

I definitely don't want to feel like an object - like a car that has to be tinkered with all the time to retain its value. I feel like accepting this mentality of altering our bodies - creating these options for ourselves - makes it so easy for little cracks to run through our confidence. I don't want to come undone because I did what every human does - I aged.

Whenever I've performed - comedy, songs, skits, readings, whatever - I feel most comfortable dressed sort of boyishly. I happily give up my sex appeal to feel feistier in a cowboy shirt and jeans. But that's not my style - I usually dress very girlishly. In the second round of a very important writing contest in which I'd won the first round, I wore a sexy black dress. In the first round I wore my lil' man outfit. I read the story exactly the same way, choked up at the exact same moment, yet the judges claimed they "saw a different Angela tonight." All they'd seen was cleavage and leg. But they liked it because most of them were men. Yet when I dress more conservatively I feel that my power will have to come from within because I can't rely on sexiness. And I know that the women in the audience will laugh louder if I don't look too threatening.

But Ani Difranco says is best: "Everything bows to beauty when it is fierce, when it is flawless."

She's right. But this woman has shaved her head many times and deserves to school the rest of us. It was her music during my college years that taught me to shout back at cat-callers. I don't recommend this, but the sort of damage I've suffered in this lifetime makes it a challenge for me to stay quiet when I'm being sexually harassed on the street.

Women are still so unbelievably oppressed and it shocks me when I meet people who don't see that. There's still too much of the world where a woman can't even show her hair - HER HAIR. In all other areas our worth is so quickly summed up by our appearance. It's not just men - women do this to each other. We disable each other with pettiness and the pushing of plastic surgery, weightloss, and revealing attire. Meanwhile, we remain constant victims of objectification, rape, ridicule and lower pay rates by our male counterparts. My mother-in-law can't watch Mad Men because the treatment of women on that show is just too reminiscent for her. How hideous is that?

I truly believe that Marilyn Monroe would've been a lot happier had she been born ugly. The pressure to maintain all of that would drive anybody bonkers, poor girl. Ms. Taylor had at least four face lifts and a nose job. But in the end, I gotta hand it to Liz (she hated to be called "Liz") - she let it blow out and she kept right on rollin'. Bettie Page became a recluse because she was so ashamed of how "fat" she'd become, yet there was Liz - hideous wig, sequined moo-moo blouse and pounds of makeup. She worked with what she had and got plenty of business done in her old age. I know I have the potential to end up as a crazy old dog-lady shut-in, but I promise you it will never be because my face and boobs gave into gravity (it'll most likely be due to the ever-present threat of the zombie apocalypse.)

I want to be beautiful. I want to remain beautiful. But when I see these "Real Housewives" running around with stretched faces and necks, that doesn't strike me as lovely. They look like cowards. But sadly, beauty was all some women had in their lifetime. I guess the goal is really to build up a beautiful life so that when the paint starts to chip you'll be too distracted by self-worth and accomplishments to notice. Excellent plan! I hope in ten years from now I've only reinforced this goal. And if I fail - though hopefully I'll never even have time to notice the age process - one of my BFFs just became a dermatologist so at least I'll have a reliable source for cutting off bits of my face and tucking them under my hairline (shudder!)

So Burn Me At The Stake, Already

2011-03-11T19:25:00.007-05:00

Another girl deleted me from her Facebook. In the last year I've lost four friends whose repulsion of me I wouldn't have known had it not been for Facebook. There was no fight, no harsh words. No argument with any of them whatsoever. Just POOF! One less person quoting a Taoist tea bag in my news feed. One of them actually owed me money at the time and was perturbed I'd left L.A. without a hearty goodbye. This was a week after she stood me up for a friend-date at my apartment. Techincally, shouldn't I have un-friended her?

I don't really know how anyone can move on without the good ol' fashioned closure that comes with calling someone a hideous name straight to their face. Don't you at least want to try gaining validation through a fight? I ask these questions but then I hear someone's mother telling them, "That girl's just not worth it."

If I encompassed a totally different body and I met me, I'd be all like, "WOW, what a refreshing kinda gal!"

But maybe that's because we'd be sharing my sense of humor. I keep thinking about my BFF, Natalie, years ago saying to me after an exceptionally heated audience Q&A over a play I'd written, "You're not controversial, you're offensive."

Eep. And yet, she was totally right (especially about THAT play!)

I've worked on this. I still work on it. My husband is old-timey and doesn't like to hear ladies swear. At first I found this sexist, but it's really just a matter of taste - he actually doesn't like hearing anyone swear. I don't like to hear non-fictional types swear, so I understood his repulsion. It's a little like asking your mate not to fart around you. So now I don't swear around him when I can help it. Unless we're fighting over politics. Then I really let 'em rip.

But back to me sucking at holding onto online friends. I realized this morning as I was leaving for the foodstamps office (I'm not ashamed, I'm just poor) that this was the first time I would be apart from my dogs since Sunday. IT'S FRIDAY! That ain't right. You leave a woman like myself alone for that long and she's gonna invent things. Sure, I wrote a ton in the last two weeks, but I've also been cultivating some opinions about myself. Mean ones. RuPaul tweeted yesterday, "No one has ever been more cruel to me than I have been to myself."

Sometimes people mistake my confidence and big mouth for an indestructible scab over the self-doubt that a normal gal would feel about herself. That's just plain silly. I hurt. I feel fat. I fall down in public way too frequently to ever let my ego get the best of me. I stew in a good funk now and then, but I brush it off pretty quickly because I'm awesome. There I said it.

I AM AWESOME.

I happen to be the greatest person I've ever met. And if you don't feel this way about yourself, I suggest you clean out the cobwebs of your emotional closet and figure out how to sustain that belief too.

According to my incredibly hot and hilarious husband, people de-friend me (both on Facebook and in real life) because of my overwhelming awesomeness. He believes they can't take it when I don't douse them in lovin'. I'm not entirely sure about that. I like to believe it has more to do with my being offensive. Because working on my level of offensiveness is something that I can control. If I've intimidated someone or made them feel small because I was having a particularly large week, well, that's on them.

I'd like to believe most of my de-friending is a political thing. I'm a hardcore Democrat, mostly because I believe in Civil Rights for everyone from pregnant women to the homosexual community. I married a Republican whom I love with all my might, but has very different ideas about the world. And I'm okay with that. Cos it'd be a boring place if we all saw it the same way (though I'd be THRILLED about the electric cars and gay marriage!) Being with Logan has forced me to see politics from all sides and respect his view too. It's not easy, but pretty much everything else with him is. I'd like a little credit on how bi-partisan I've become. Even though I still believe the Republican party is mostly just money-motivated, while whipping out the Bible to manipulate voters, I know that's not entirely true. And nothing is worse than people who speak in absolutes. "All Republicans are money-grubbing..." or "Angie is ALWAYS so annoying with those petitions about gay marriage..."

I'm working on living as shamelessly as possible and not in that throw-me-beads-and-I'll-flash-my-boobs kinda way. I'm trying not to judge anyone as heartily as I have in the past. Just today Kelli and I were strolling through the park when we saw an old man urinating on the wall. He was well-dressed and had set his bag of groceries on the ground to properly relieve himself with both hands. Kelli was grossed out.

"That's sick! I can't believe this!" she shouted.

But I felt bad for him and told her, "He's old. Maybe he's incontinent. It happens."

Kel's expression changed. I didn't want to undermine her - sure, it was disgusting. But maybe the only options he had were A) Pee my pants or B) Pee on this wall. Kel simmered down after I persisted about the bladders of the elderly. I didn't want to make him feel bad about his offensive act. I want to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I don't know your plight! And I'd be an absolute jerk if I pretended that I did. But as we passed the old man I caught a strong whiff of alcohol that probably wasn't coming from any of the park-like fixtures.

I was proud that my instinct was to protect someone from feeling bad about himself - even if he was covering public property with his pee. We're hard enough on ourselves. I think we can afford to be nice to each other, no matter how gross or obnoxious we're being. And if you're especially gifted, there's always this option of retaliation: